Don't Worry Love - Chelmsford City FC Vs Hampton & Richmond Borough FC, National League South Play-Off Semi-Final, Melbourne Community Stadium (06/05/18)

It was long after I got home tonight that I realised my forearms were somewhere on the colour chart between a cooked lobster and a Coke can, the damage really having already been done before we’d even reached today's ground, driving along with my right arm jutting halfway out of the open window of my car, topping up my white van man tan. Did it dawn on me, that despite all the agony of having After Sun put on them, and hardly being able to pick them up above my head, the morning after, that it was all totally worth it.

It's a glorious day, the thermostat supposedly going to edge over 25c, and I thank myself for ignoring that brief idea of wearing jeans.

Picking Tom up from home is not unusual, most of our days out start that way, but the fact I’m getting out of the car, walking up to his blue door, and ringing the bell, because I come bearing gifts, is not exactly the norm.

A bakewell tart, not any old bakewell tart mind, no Mr Kipling knock off, but one from Bakewell itself, from what I’m sure is one of the many bakeries in the small Derbyshire town, who claim to have been the first to make it.

He is either a very good actor, or he is genuinely happy I've just handed him a Teller mine sized, almond covered dessert and much to my surprise there is a present coming back my way too. When I remove the crimson, gold fringed pennant of AC Sorrento with a seahorse on, Tom having just returned from a holiday in southern Italy. I fear that my present is nowhere near as good, regardless of its authentic provenance.

Considering I went to Stockport and he went to Naples, there is only so much I want to hear about margaritas and day trips to the Amalfi Coast. I do my best to steer the conversation away from his holiday, but he just ends up talking about his upcoming loft conversion and the trials and tribulations of engagement ring shopping and I seriously start to wonder, if we have officially run out of anything interesting to say to each other today.

Yes, yes, I know, there are other places to watch football than Essex, but we are somewhat inexplicably drawn to the place, time after time. I myself don't see the Chelmsford Cathedral, it's impressive spire jutting up into the hazy blue sky, but it catches Tom’s eye above the sea of modern day places of worship. The houses of retail therapy, that litter the road sides, in their little prefab clusters.

I normally don't entertain Toms fanciful ideas, but when as he always does, points out in his unique high pitched way things we are passing, I seriously wonder if we have time for a quick round at the “pitch and putt”.

I’m sure I can see an ever so slight shimmer, a heat haze on the asphalt of the car park, approaching the turnstiles, the large sign welcoming us to “The home of the Clarets”. I already feel ill equipped for the heat, and have an instant feeling of sympathy for the hired security in their obligatory uniform of white buttoned up shirt and black trousers. If I’m already suffering, they must be sweating bullets.

Only inside the ground for maybe twenty five seconds, and Tom has already made two quickfire observations. Firstly that the main stand is a “long way from the pitch” he is not wrong, the Melbourne Community Stadium has an athletics track, and although a few modifications have been made for match day, two small stands erected behind each goal, are inside the perimeter of the red track, one covered, one not, a prime place to get an excellent sunburn, there is still a vast distance between where the bulk of people will be sitting, in the shade, and the game itself.

Secondly, and even though there is no love lost between Tom and running tracks at football, the fact that the food van, currently blasting out some Elvis, where surprisingly the three women manning the grill, look flawless, I would be in bits, has “pineapple in their burgers”.

Such tropical conditions and exotic food, one could be forgiven for thinking they were on holiday.

“Picked a good day for it” I hear twice in short succession, I’m not sure what is “good” at all about standing about in the blazing sun all day, the player going through a fitness test, clearly struggling with some small niggle, pulling up every so often, I’m sure doesn’t think the added high temperatures are anyway close to “good”.

A couple of CC flags flutter on their poles on the front of the club's supporters trust shed, alluding to some kind of breeze but I can’t feel it. I’m too fat, too white and too Irish for this kind of weather, I like to skulk around in the darkness, when the weather gets all “good”.

The only place for me is in the stand, the cool, shady stand, right next to a gargantuan CC flag. There are a few in fact already up, the other hangs from the side of the hammer cage, that sits conspicuously on one corner of the pitch, the green nets of which, the ones that ensure you don't get a 16lb lump of stone in the head, have been lowered, so as to not totally impede your view, but the large metal frame of the cage, kind of already does that.

An all too uncommon sight at non league grounds is a score board, moving up into the higher echelons of the non league world, and the National League, I guess they are more common, but it's nice to see one nonetheless. The red dot-matrix one, far off in the distance, on the side of a leisure centre type looking building, which Tom is convinced has a “swimming pool” inside, is a little bit on the small side, but has the added bonus of also being able to display the CC “starting XII”.

“Food looks good, I'm excited today” says Tom, joining me in the stand. He is very much a sun worshipper. With his jaunty baseball cap, shades and overly hairy extremities on show, he is like a pig in shit, loving nothing more than strolling around in the hideous heat. You would think I would be a little perturbed by the fact we are attending a play-off semi-final, today's two teams now only two games away from the National League, and he is getting hot under the collar about the dining options. However, I’m long desensitised to his skewed priorities.

It’s not like I haven't been totally forthcoming with my displeasure at the current conditions, so when he does join me, clutching a can of Coke, small beads of condensation running down the side just like in the adverts, and doesn't have one for me, well I'm appalled.

The very brief blast of music from the PA, mixes with the distant sounds of the programme seller and the constant sound of the spatula from the food truck working the hotplate. For once we are not the only ones early. Many like Tom are loving the weather, standing outside the very contemporary clubhouse, with the club's motto emblazoned below its crest on its side, “Many Minds One Heart”, enjoying a pint. While I look on sweating and thirsty. “Not a Coldplay fan” suggests Tom as only a couple of lines from one of their drippy songs escape the speakers, before being turned off again.

CC’s manger with his distinctive slicked back hair, is out to prod the pitch and looks happy. Tom has his own concerns, his stomach, he doesn't think he can make it to half time, “I might have to eat before kick off”. I know he didn't try and bribe me with food, maybe it was the promise of a cold drink of my own, but I decided to leave the safe haven of the stand, heading out into the pounding heat.

The people selling the vast array of sweets under their red gazebo, have the right idea, portable, take it where you want shade. The pear drops and flying saucers, remind Tom of “Highbury”, and the people there who used to sell them from under a red and white striped tarpaulin on match days. Funnily one of my abiding memories from my few visits there, is of just that too.

You can feel the heat from the grill, but the people behind it are clearly old hats, and seem unfazed. Tom thinks he may have found an explanation to the slightly underwhelming club shop, a man next to a table with a boot bag on and no pins, is because all the clubs money has been spent on the “condiments”.

To a football food aficionado, there is no finer sight than a vast array of sauces, relishes and even
pickles. Two large murky looking jars, are available, for you to apply some to taste, to your burger. Tom will have none of them or pineapple, but it does have “monterey jack cheese” very fancy.

The programme seller in his shed looks very happy and cool, inviting me to plunge my hand lucky dip style into a bowl to pick my two golden goal tickets, before I can even glance at the prize list pinned to the wall, he has fired it off at me word for word.

It's the call of the sweet seller who is the newest addition to the ever growing atmosphere. People are
already sitting on the steps of the sunburn trap terrace, I’m sure without the relevant factor cream on, many seats of the stand are quickly being occupied.

Adding their own unique noise to the maelstrom, are the newly arrived away fans, them of Hampton & Richmond Borough FC (HB) who we hear, long before we see, “Beavers, Beavers, Beavers”.

A home flag is put up behind one goal, will all the delicacy of hanging a priceless painting, once erected, all the edges straight, making sure it's looking its best, its patted with the kind of fondness that you don’t really expect to see at football, and which is normally reserved for an ageing family pet.

When overhearing a confused conversation between two passing CC fan's, I wonder if the heat has claimed its first victims. “Hope our manager gets sacked” says one to the other, “why?” replies the second man quizzically, who clearly doesn't understand his friends statement. “He’s useless” he replies, which just gets an even more confused face in response. “Look what he did at Southampton” says the first man, trying to back up his point. The face of the second man is now a picture of absolute bemusement. The first man now just about cottoning on to the fact there may be some crossed wires, tries to clarify, “who did you think I meant?”, “not here!”.

What is actually the club shop is now open, you can tell this by the two yellow silhouettes of men, usually used for free kick practise wearing the club's home shirt propped up outside. Right next to the tiny white and claret CC wheelbarrow that I nearly trip over. It makes me wonder who the man with the boot bag and the table was, a local fraudster?

It’s Tom Jones now spilling from the burger van, entertaining the ever growing crowds. “Next, next, next” shout the servers, trying their best to make some impact on the snaking line, pineapple must be popular.

Sweltering hot, face meltingly warm, but it does little to hamper the HB fans already in good voice. As the HB players head in from their warm up, each one it seems gets their own song, one about a “magic hat”. One returning CC player, is asked for his shirt by a small autograph hunter “can't give you my shirt” he explains, wouldn't go down well with the “kit man”, but he’s more than happy to scribble in the kids programme.

I bet it's quite warm in the creaking claret extendable tunnel, which is man handled into place. With the bright sun beaming through it, the players ready to emerge from inside it, are bathed in a pale crimson light. When they eventually step out of the dark, all hell breaks loose, and doesn't stop for the next hour and half.

The away fans have occupied the curiously placed steps to one side of the tunnel, a long way from the pitch and at totally the wrong angle. They are soon belting out a few lines of “we love you Hampton we do” as the players file past them, along the narrow strip of roll out fake grass, past the long jump pit, and right at the naked hammer cage. A single home fan, an older man, stands close by, holding up and waving a flag at the passing players.

There is a monumental change of ends, the CC fans flooding towards the covered terrace, the HB supporters leaving their awkward little spot and now occupying the sun burn trap, hurriedly putting up their own flags as the both teams huddle on the pitch, for a few last words before kick off.

“Up the city” says the man on the PA.

Although here in greater numbers, it had not been the home fans, but those of HB ‘making all the noise’ as they say, this dramatically changes once everyone has settled in their first half homes.

The din coming from the opposite end of the pitch is nothing short of staggering, something we have been very rarely treated to at a non league match. Everything that can be banged or hit to make a noise is being so. One man at the front, with both fists pounds the hoarding like an irate gorilla, “CCFC, CCFC, CCFC, CCFC”.

Lots of early home pressure, results in a shout for a penalty, so loud, that if I was the referee I would have given it, just to avoid being shouted at so deafeningly again. It was like something you would hear at a top flight game. You must excuse my slight shell shock, we are just simply not used to so many people at the games we go to, I’m slightly in awe.

Two minutes later and HB have their own shout for a spot kick, it's nowhere near as loud, or intimidating, and the ref doesn’t give it.

CC have come out the blocks flying, their fans and players, “City, City, City”. On the pitch and they have just crashed a header off the bar, not even ten minutes gone and they look rampant, the supporters doing a great job of whipping themselves into something just short of a frenzy, “we all follow the Chelmsford, over land and sea”.

Seconds after hitting the bar, HB’s towering keeper in his vivid yellow strip is almost lobbed, frantically back peddling, he manages to tip the ball over the bar. HB need to wake up sharpish, they are almost out of this and it's not even begun. “City, City, City” sing the home fans once more, who are thunderous.

Again the woodwork stops HB going behind, just to be clear about twelve minutes have elapsed, the home fans are so loud, “CCFC, CCFC, CCFC”. The corner that follows the most recent test of the goals paint job, sees the ball cleared off the HB line. “Come on Hampton, come on Hampton” plead the away fans.

HB's keeper has the tendency for a bit of a rush of blood to the head at times, he loves to charge off his line, causing a few hearts to flutter on occasions. CC’s keeper is quite the opposite he is a sturdy unit of a man, with a Samurai topknot, of “Jack Butland” proportions Tom suggests. Like a slow moving boulder, he doesn't spend too much time out of his six yard box.

Just over twenty minutes gone and HB are finally getting some modicum of possession, but their play is a bit sloppy, the players not quite up to speed yet, in tune with each other, each misplaced pass gets a small groan from their fans. “Beavers, Beavers, Beavers” they chant, which I stand by maybe being the nicest chant in football. The reply from the CC fans is not so demure, “it's nice to know you’re here, fuck off”.

In a brief lull, we have time to play our favourite game of pointing out what other kits the kits on show look a bit like, today its Burnley Vs Argentina. Tom asks “what number would you be?”. I’ve never really thought about it, I used to play in goal at school, but always fancied myself as a goal scoring centre back, so say 5. “You would be Steve Bold” he tells me, before divulging he “likes” the number “7”.

Although HB are very much on the back foot, they at least have started to grow into the game now, feeding off scraps you might say, relying on the home team to make a mistake and then counter attacking, rather than really creating anything of their own.

Another loose HB pass at the back is quickly pounced on, sending the CC attacker towards goal, but his final attempt is well wide. The game has certainly settled since the madness of the opening fifteen minutes. There is still the occasional barrage from the CC end, but they are certainly nowhere near as loud, their manic chanting and King Kong hoarding bashing has subsided. Replaced now with their own fair old bit of grumbling about their teams careless play.

With the home supporters much quiter, the HB fans now have a chance to show what they are all about, and are the loudest for the first time today, “Beavers, Beavers, Beavers”.

Ten minutes of the half left and CC break into the box, the attempt at goal is blocked, bringing an almighty “ohhhhhh”, then a “ahhhhh” from the main stand. I really can't impress on you enough just quite how hot it is, the sun beating down on my considerable forehead is quite unbearable. Tom reckons the “heat” is the reason for the games diminishing pace, “you imagine running around in this for forty five minutes”, “fuck knows how people play in Brazil”.

A CC goal is starting to look imminent, not if, but when, they have another shot blocked in the box, it’s all getting very last ditch in the HB defence. There are shouts of “off, off, off” when a swashbuckling and free flowing CC counter attack is halted by what Tom describes as a “dirty fucking tackle”. When the referee only produces a yellow, the fans clearly wanting, expecting more, they don’t hold back in letting him know their displeasure.

In the considerable build up to the resulting free kick, “take your fucking time” says Tom, as the taker and a teammate take an age lining it up, the CC fans seem to be anticipating things, “claret, claret, claret” they chant excitedly. Sadly for the expectant fans the set piece is well over, well well over, “after all that, at least get it close” tut's Tom.

Much like the opening exchanges, the closing ones are just as frantic. CC tickle the wood work again, then shoot just over, which gets another rousing “ohhhhhh” from the big crowd. Their number 7 then goes on a winding run down the right wing, cutting inside, then out, his eventual cross blocked by the HB defender who did well to keep up with him.

It is though the visitors, who finish the half with a late chance, but not before a bit of panto in response to a HB player who is, and call me a cynic, playing for time. Going down, then miraculously getting back up again when he doesn't get the free kick, much to the disapproval of the
home fans, “wanker, wanker, wanker”.

HB’s last gasp effort comes thanks to a bit of a flap from the CC keeper, who palms the ball into the area, but the HB player who gets on the other end of it, is only able to strike it with a bit of his thigh and a lot of his knee, and the ball goes wide.

“Come on Beavers, come on” shout the HB fans, as the players make their way off, grateful I’m sure for fifteen minutes out of the blistering sun.

“We will have extra time and penalties” confirms the voice over the PA, if the score stays the way it is. He then runs through the half time scores from the Premiership, National League, and most importantly the Bostick League North Play Off final where it's still “0-0” between Haringey Borough Vs Canvey Island.

Then he does something that has happened far too often for my liking this season, and I put it down to poor advertising, its not for a lack of trying to find it on my part, but he informs all interested parties that the “half time draw” will take place shortly. For the first time though, Tom is disappointed for me, looking at me like I'd just lost a loved one, instead of his usual ‘you’re a pathetic addict’ one, which is comforting.

There has been what might be a record breaking change of ends, the HB fans much like the players want to give their sizzling skin a rest and have soon filled the covered terrace, their flags up in a flash. Not content with listening to Katy Perry, they take to banging the stand, spending the remainder of the break signing to themselves.

CC’s manager is out long before his players, clutching two small bottles of water, his arrival is applauded, he raises his hand to acknowledge the crowd, and Tom comments something that is plainly clear to see, he is “well liked”.

It seems a much fairer fight between the two sets of fans when the players return. “Come on
City, come on City” sing the home fans who have now occupied the sunburn trap, the HB supporters who have had a miraculous injection of something, are now giving it a hearty “Hampton, Hampton, Hampton”.

The voice over the PA expresses the same sentiment as the fans, “come on City”, just after reading out the results of the half time draw. “Missed out on £220 pounds” says Tom in horror. I think if he knew how much was at stake, he might start buying himself a couple of tickets.

It is somewhat of a condolence that I at least still have the golden goal tickets securely placed in the breast pocket of my shirt, but not a lot.

HB open the second half with a half chance, that falls tamely into the keepers hands. CC respond with an equally tame attempt, and as the two teams get back into the flow of things, two CC ball boys in white caps, both perched on plastic stools share a jelly snake, which one went and got in the break from the sweet stand. They listen to the away fans who are now belting out their songs, unsure why they keep repeating the name of a certain river dwelling big tailed mammal, “Beavers, Beavers, Beavers”.

On the 53rd minute of the game, the whole dynamic of it changes, when one CC player goes full John Terry. The keepers attempt to claim the cross from the corner is woeful, now on the floor, having missed the ball completely, it hits a HB player, fortunately falling straight at his feet he takes an almighty swing at it, the ball now destined for the bottom corner.

Seeing his team are about to go behind, one CC player is under the impression it's rush goalie, he stops the shot from going in with two hands low down to his right. There is a huge shout for a penalty from the HB fans behind the goal, and for a split second the game continues, the players then make their own claim, but conscious the ball is still in play, the referee having not blown up yet, they scramble to poke home the rebound following the players save.

The short sharp bursts of the referee's whistle and his pointed hand, mean he has seen the glaring handball, penalty for HB, straight red card for the CC player.

It's a very long walk to the tunnel, a very very long walk, regardless of the added ignominy of having been sent off, giving away a penalty, and all the eyes of the fans upon you. He pulls his shirt half up to cover his face, but I’m sure is consoled in some small way by the soft ripple of applause he gets and the comments of encouragement from the crowd, “don't worry love”.

He doesn't make it all the way to the tunnel before the spot kick is taken, he stands watching on from the sidelines with his teammates warming up, as the HB player coolly tucks the ball into the bottom right hand corner.

His shirt off now, hanging from one hand, accompanied by a steward he makes the final few steps off down the tunnel, but not before a small boy offers him a high five, which he reluctantly gives back. The HB players in their Argentina esq shirts at the far end of the pitch dash for the corner flags to celebrate, and their fans behind the goal, ramp up the noise levels another couple of notches.

The home crowds confidence has clearly taken a knock, they try to rally, but its just nowhere near as loud, “come on City”.

Three minutes after going behind, CC have their own shout for a penalty, which is waved away, and I’ve only just about got round to opening my golden goal tickets with my sweaty hands to find to no great surprise, I was well out the running, 88th and 90th.

“Get me some sweets” asks Tom, I think the ball boys jelly snake has made him jealous and I think he might be a bit delirious, he keeps muttering “burny, burny” in my ear, and if I’m honest his neck is looking a bit medium rare.

Practically every member of the HB bench are on their feet, watching the loose ball ricochet around the CC box, before it is hooked clear, the CC manager angrily barks at his team from the sidelines, all while the HB supporters reel off song, after song, “We’re the red and blue army” and the tune that until our visit to HB a couple of years ago, Tom thought only Arsenal sung, “who to, who to be, who to be a Beaver”.

CC’s fans attempt a reply, but again it's just a bit flat.

Just over the half an hour mark, and cries of “dirty, dirty Essex” is coming from the covered terrace with the HB fans in. A cynical CC tackle, a swipe at the heels of the HB player who is almost away and free of the defence, sees him sent crashing to the floor. “Off, off, off” demand the HB supporters, but it's only a yellow.

The free kick that follows is headed wide, and I think it's fair to say, HB have not really capitalised yet on the man advantage.

All of the CC fans energy is being diverted away from their impressive signing from the first half, towards the referee, whose action or lack of it at times is causing them much consternation, “what's wrong with you ref?” one asks angrily when he doesn't give what they all seem to think is a clear foul on the edge of the HB box.

When they finally get a call their way, it gets one of the biggest cheers of the day, and a clash of heads brings about a much needed water break, but ends up giving the home fans just more time to
grow angrier and angrier, time to build more and more vitriol towards the man in charge.

With the game edging closer and closer to full time, HB try every way they can to slow and manage the last ten minutes or so. There is plenty of arm waving from the home bench and shouting from the stands at the amount of time they are taking to make their substitutes.

It doesn't feel like its getting any cooler, however much water I drink, or however many times I wipe my brow with my shirt, I’m still too hot, I’m still horribly sweaty. The ball boys are now pouring water into their hats to keep themselves cool.

The change in the two sets of fans from the first to second half is dramatic, the HB supporters have not stopped, “Beavers, Beavers”, every attempt by the home fans doesn't even have a quarter of the spirit that it did in the first half.

On the pitch, and you still wouldn't really know that CC are a man worse off, they have HB pegged back, “get it away” shouts one of the red and blue woolly scarf wearing fans, insane, as another ball is pumped into their box, and scrambled away.

Five minutes to go, plus what I would think might be a considerable amount of injury time, the down side of time wasting, which HB are now doing expertly, is that it gets added onto the end. A HB corner sees them only send three up, and just before its about to be taken, they decide to make another change. This does not go down well with the locals.

Who they bring on, gives a window into the thinking of the HB manager, a towering, braided hair, muscle bound predator looking mother fucker. A huge dude, who would have no issue hunting Arnie and his mates in the jungle. He has one job to do, hold the ball up. At one point he has two CC players trying their hardest to win the ball back off him, and it's like watching two ewoks trying to chop down a redwood.

“Come on ref, what's going on?” asks a CC fan from the stands, the general consensus is that the man in the charge has been anything but.

HB’s keeper almost lets the hosts back into the game with seconds of normal time left, a fumble in the box allows for a shot which is blocked and then the follow up, which is hit over. “Wehhhhhhh” shout the HB fans, doing a bad job at masking their relief.

The counter on the tiny scoreboard reads 90 when HB almost, almost put the game to bed, a shot across the keeper from a tight angle, can only be parried into the six yard box, but no one, because pretty much everyone else is camped just outside their box, is their to finish.

Four minutes of extra time to go, every CC mistake gets a cheer, a whistle, the jingling of fine West London jewelry from the HB fans, who somehow continue to get louder, “Beavers, Beavers”. CC players frantically clammer for the ball, trying to take throw ins as quickly as possible, trying to get the ball forward.

They sing again a song about a “magic hat”, perhaps it's the one covering the bald head of the HB manager, who now stands arms raised almost constantly, gesticulating towards his players, as they sink back, deeper and deeper into their half.

The whistle can only be moments away, the covered terrace is taking one hell of a kicking, the fans it contains and those spilling out either side of it, are close to exploding, “Hampton, Hampton, Hampton”.

There is a monumental outpouring of emotion on the final whistle, from vastly different ends of the spectrum. The HB players whoop and shout, hugging each other, the CC players stand frozen, the magnitude of whats just happened, visible flooding through them. The visiting players don't gloat for too long in front of their defeated foe, making sure to do the right thing, and shake hands and commiserate their stunned opponents.

Socks rolled down, the CC players gather at the feet of their manger, one lies shirt off on the pitch, just staring skywards, as the HB players approach their fans.

"Beavers, Beavers, Beavers" sing the visiting supporters for the last time, most having amassed on the railing awaiting for the players to arrive. A large blue and red flag is tossed towards one who duly catches it and starts to unfurl it. Numerous players are embraced almost consumed by the congratulatory outstretched hands of the fans who have been quite superb this second half.

For a moment the whole team, coaches and one player in a protective boot, unite in front of the supporters, holding the flag, both players and fans soaking it up.

The players, as the fans still serenade them, then form a small tight circle, some words are said, and they break. It had the air of a full stop, the job is only half done, they've enjoyed this moment, now on to the final.

CC's players and staff are still on the pitch, the HB ones long down the tunnel, their fans having dashed to clap them off one last time. Not all the home fans have left yet, a small group has stopped behind, waiting for their team to eventually leave.

We've been to finals, we've seen people win things, loose things and get promoted, but I wonder if a semi-final is that little bit more charged, that little bit more exciting because of the 'what if?' because if you win that one, then God only knows what might happen next. A final, well is final, its all over, a semi-final, still has an element of anticipation about it, of what the next game still to come will bring.

Not only was it a quite a battle on the pitch, but off it too. A ram packed stadium and two sets of fans giving it their all. I'm not a huge fan of the expression 'a good advert for non league football' it always seems a bit condescending. However today, today shows you just what is going on outside the gaze of Sky TV. That the football world has so much more to offer as far as big occasions and rousing atmospheres are concerned, than only what is happening in the 'top flight' and its glorious, a bit hot, but glorious.

 

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It's Like Being In Kavos - Concord Rangers FC Vs Bognor Regis Town FC, National League South, Aspect Arena (17/04/18)

Toms done a few nice things I can think of, off the top of my head, over the past three years. He’s bought me a couple of football related knick knacks back from his holidays and as he always reminds me when I ask for petrol money, that the bottles of water and cups of coffee he gets are not free, but he’s never baked.

Before he’s even got in the car, he’s handed me over the passenger seat a small homemade cookie, I’m ever so slightly lost for words.

Considering it was just the one, it's not exactly around for long, the crumbs are already littering my jumper before we’ve turned out from the end of this road. It was good, he suggested it might be a bit “stale” being a day or so old, but it was actually very good. I know he didn't go full Paul Hollywood just for me, but the fact he thought of bringing me one “stale” or not, is very touching, he's such a swell guy.

Essex, the place we are always going, the place we are going tonight, the place not actually that far from Toms or my house, and if it weren't for the broken down HGV right in the centre lane of the A13, it would have been a pretty seamless journey. However old Mr Big Rigs choice of rest stop, the centre lane, means I’m very rarely out of second gear as we creep along, out of East London.

Edging past an allotment, Toms green fingers start to tingle. He spent his Sunday afternoon attending to his new small garden, and I wonder if his own little spot to grow some brassica's takes his fancy, where he could hoist an Arsenal flag or a Jolly Roger, just like the people who have them flying above their sheds below us, but he doesn't. I think a pot with some tomatoes in, is about as far as he wants to go, as he puts it he has no interest in entering Newham Council's “biggest pumpkin competition”.

When Tom starts talking about a “pheasant” I assume he is just pointing out another of the inordinate amount of dead ones, along with all the other roadkill, that has littered this particular A road. So far it's been like Saving Private Ryan for the Animals of Farthing Wood, the majority of whom are sprawled and splattered, in various undignified poses just the other side of the white line of the fast lane, but this lucky bird as he puts it is “alive” and “chilling out on the roundabout”.

The very roundabout, still a long way from our destination, where we see a sign for tonight's club. The yellow and blue board, in the colours of Concord Rangers FC (CR), with this evening's fixture on it, points the way to the ground. A sign that Tom is very impressed that someone has “changed”, the information on it correctly, considering its on the side of a fiercely busy roundabout, it can't be much of a fun job to do.

Not wanting to be distasteful or disrespectful, but it's not exactly clear what is being remembered along the Avenue of Remembrance. An almost never ending tree lined road that leads you over the estuary, over the mud flats on to Canvey Island. A “very green and well kept” island as Tom puts it.

I start to get a few faint whiffs of deja vu, from our previous visit to The Island, sounds very dramatic that way doesn't it. On that occasion if was to see the other team, who share their name with this small leafy outcrop, that somehow is able to support two football clubs. “Those are sweet” comments Tom about a long row of  white fronted bungalows, gleaming in the late evening sun.

Not yellow and blue, but our second sign of the night, leading us to where we are going, is much smaller than the first, about halfway up a lamp post. It shares its spots with its neighbour, a Gas Works, which is a definite first for us.

I have to say the car park of The Aspect Arena, is another example of a non league shocker, thankfully we are able to park not far from the turnstiles, so the chances of falling or tripping over later in the dark are reduced considerably.

The ground or arena, is not what first springs to mind when one imagines an ‘arena’, it's more of a, well I’m not sure what it is. I don’t think in all our time going to football at all kinds of levels, we’ve ever seen anything quite like it. There is just not a huge amount to it.

Behind one goal is a kind of lean to, a makeshift narrow terrace. Opposite what I’ll call the ‘main stand’, which is in fact three small covered stands plonked next to each other on the halfway line, each with different coloured seats, are the two totally perspex dugouts, either side of which are two stands, one taped off due to its multitude of smashed seats.

Hodge podge seating arrangements and a few frayed edges are not uncommon. It’s more what surrounds us that makes it unusual. Beyond the high mesh net that hangs shabbily from thin metal poles, are a sea of beige mobile homes and behind one goal is the well signposted local gas works, which is quite literally the other side of the fence. Numerous metal domes poke skywards, creaking every so often, and emitting a piercing metal screech, which all adds to the curiosity of the place.

I am also maybe slightly thankful for still having a bit of a bunged up nose, but certainly feel miles better than I did at the weekend, just in case anyone cared, because according to Tom it “stinks” a bit, the pungency of the gas works ever present.

Regardless of the scenery or the smell, there is one thing present that at least ensures Tom will be contented, that comes in the form of the rectangular open fronted Food Station, which from a brief glance already, Tom has decided looks “nice”. Outside it and the clubhouse, where the clubs name has been built into its frontage, are a mix of picnic tables one of which has been painted in the ever present club colours, yellow and blue.

“When you going on that?” asks Tom pointing at the punch bag in the corner of the almost barren bar, only for a couple of framed signed football shirts on the wall offering a little bit of character. The answer is I’m not, the fact there are about five people in here, I’m not risking making a complete tit of myself.

The other side of the room to us, we’re holed up in a brown leather dinner booth underneath a signed Messi shirt, a man who I can't see, but can certainly hear, holds court among the three or four away fans of Bognor Regis Town FC (BRT). When one can get a word in edgewise, he suggests “in all seriousness think this might be us”, he’s clearly not expecting many to be making the long journey up from West Sussex, exacerbated by BGT’s dismal showing this year, and the fact they are currently bottom of the league.

With opportunities for anyone else to talk limited, the man with a thick Yorkshire accent, casts his wide net of opinions across the whole of the football world. Sharing his thoughts on “Mourinho”, and the fact he needs to “pull a rabbit out of the hat” to ensure his time at Manchester United is not a busted flush. As he puts it, it's not like he is having that “magical second season” everyone always says he has.

He thinks United will “beat Spurs” in the upcoming FA Cup semi final, and then he turns his sights on England and this summer's World Cup. “We’re not going to take on the Germans, Brazilians” or “even the Spanish”, the way he says the name of the recent two time European champions and World Cup winners, like they are international small fry, is hysterical.

I tune out from my ear wigging right around the time he describes one person as a “club man, not a football man”. When he uses the immortal line, “football man” once again, I’m done, and we head outside, the punch bag unmolested.

Tom’s astute time keeping means he's a bit worried, because it's “ten past seven” and neither teams
coaches have “put any cones out yet”, he thinks something is afoot.

The silence of The Aspect Arena, that has only been threatened to be overcome by the odd crackle of the PA, is finally defeated by the one and only king of pop, Michael Jackson. His 1979 hit 'Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough' does wonders in elevating a ground that until now, might just be the quietest we’ve ever been to.

When the CR players eventually appear, from the long skinny tunnel that runs along one side of the clubhouse, passing through the blue gates with the club's nickname on them, The Beach Boys, well we frankly hardly notice them. It's not because of the plague of midges circling above us, but because of the music, coming from a speaker that Tom has pointed out are of a much, much higher standard than the ones at your average non league ground, the “disco madness” as Tom calls it, sounds great.

There are a long string of classics. I feel for Tom a bit when 'September' by Earth Wind and Fire starts, having only just got it out of his head after our recent visit to Haringey Borough, where the fans their sung their own version of it on a near constant loop.

Tom was right, the lack of cones was the sign of some disturbance in the force, BRT were late, kick off has been delayed until 19:55, why not till 20:00 we’ll never know, perhaps the referee is in a rush to get home. The extra time is used by the majority of people here, who are congregated around the same corner of the pitch as the Food Station, to get a bit of food in them. A couple of picnic tables are now occupied, and there is the occasional click of the nearby turnstiles.

As much as I’m enjoying the quite excellent music, I don't profess to being a huge fan of disco at all, but there is a comfort in the familiarity of the upbeat tunes which is quite uplifting, it doesn't distract me completely from the ever growing cloud of midges, circling about a foot above me. I assure myself it's not because I stink, but because they love the smell of my shampoo.

While the CR keeper warms up with a slightly unorthodox sidekick, not your old fashioned drop and hoof of days gone by, that Tom doesn't reckon he will do in the game anyway, it’s just dawned on my companion, that CR play in the “same colours” as their island rivals, which he says quietly, as to not rile any of the locals. Admittedly it is a bit odd, you would think each team's would be polar opposites.

It's not the words of Chic or any other such affiliated band or artist of that era that echoes around the ground next but the words of the announcer welcoming those in attendance, “good evening ladies and gentleman”. What follows not long after is another first, almost near silence as the teams finally walk out, having been milling around behind the beach boys gates for a while.

In a complete contrast from the genre that had preceded it, again the music saves the day in the sense it injects a bit of much needed life into the place. The apparent go to for a lot of non league clubs we’ve learnt this season, is 'Insomnia' by Faithless, the mid 90’s dance track does a fine job in lifting this corner of Essex out of the doldrums.

One thing I know plenty of people like about non league football is the intimacy, never has that been more apparent than tonight. With the crowd scattered to all four corners of the ground, Tom at one point asking “where did everybody go?” because what looked like quite a reasonable turnout at one point, are now dotted in ones and twos all round the pitch, you can hear the pre kick off shouts of the players with crystal clear clarity, “come on rocks lets go”.

Moments after the whistle it's one of the few away fans, not a home fan that lets out a loud rallying cry, “come on rocks”. The home fans though don’t have to wait long to have something a bit more exciting to shout about then simply the beginning of the match, well I say shout about.

“Fuck there goes my score prediction” grumbles Tom, CR having gone ahead after all of three minutes, Tom having predicted 0 - 0.

The constant presence of the eggy smell, not one I can attest to having smelt myself, due to my aforementioned blocked nose, has had a curious effect on Tom, “makes me want egg and chips”, what a fucking weirdo. He also after revelling in the fact the sun was out and what fine conditions we were going to be treated to for this evening's match is now moaning, “bit nippy now, should of brought a jumper”. He then makes a points I've been making for three years, like he’s just thought of it for the first time “I never get my attire right”.

Not long after going ahead the CR keeper all in orange, which Tom “loves” because he has clearly matched “his boots and his gloves” to go with his jersey, blocks a goal bound BRT shot. Two minutes after that they flash a flat corner across the box, but no one can get on the other end of it.

“No, no, no, no” says a BRT fan as CR attack. His hope that if he shouts loud enough what he doesn't want to to happen, it will somehow prevent them from getting a second, his theory works for now.

I’m not sure I would call the first twenty minutes or so ‘end to end’, but both teams have certainly had chances. BRT’s apparent “shooting from everywhere” policy certainly has Tom entertained, “fucking hell” he squeals as another one of their players crashes a speculative long range shot goal wards. Tom in fact suggests it is the visitors, and not the hosts, who have look the better side since the goal.

Some on the home bench think the team are being too “passive” and tell them so. This lack of urgency sees them concede another shot on goal following a corner, the whole of the home bench groaning in unison

Many things about tonight's experience have been a little odd, not unpleasant, just well, a bit odd. The manner of the referee is added to the list, when he declines BT’s shout for a penalty, after the all orange keeper had clattered into one of the away players. He simply repeats “no, no, no” in the most pompous of fashions.

The arrival of the “moody clouds” as Tom describes them, rolling towards us across what until now was a very big blue sky, seems to signify a bit of a change in the temper of the match. Perhaps the gravity of the occasion has finally dawned on the players, as the game starts to get as Tom calls it a bit “physical” and he is concerned for the well being of one BRT player who he describes as “dinky”.

“Gentlemen easy” says the referee as the game edges towards getting a little bit naughty.

BRT continue to show brief moments of attacking prowess, sadly for them though, nowhere
near as much as they did the last time we saw them, up the road at Park Lane, where they put five past the home team that day, with a monster of a forward up front on loan from Fulham getting a hattrick, as they charged towards promotion to the National League South. Now they find themselves at the very bottom of the same league, on the verge of dropping out of it, what a difference twelve months makes. A great ball down the right wing is cut into the box, waiting to be hammered home, but no one is there to finish.

Everyone on the pitch is very shouty, I’m not sure if they are trying to overcompensate for the lack of noise from the crowd, but all the players are very vocal. Ten minutes of the half to go and CR whip a ball across the box, and there isn't even as much as an ohhh or an ahhh.

The visitors go close again, the same ball inside in the CR left back is paying off dividends for them, the ball into the box this time is met by a player who attempts a Zola back heel, but its blocked by a combination of his marker and the keeper, although at least that is what he thought. Instead of getting the corner he thought he deserved, its a goal kick and he looks perplexed.

Perhaps the biggest shouter of them all, apart from the single BRT fan in his green hat, is someone on the CR bench, who every time he yells, “put some graft in” the latest of his offerings, Tom thinks he is going to give himself a “fucking heart attack”.

What might just be the highlight of the night so far, is the sight in the distance of the failed bicycle kick attempted by one CR player at a corner. This falls just in front of hearing the voice of the BRT manager for the first time who sounds like the villain from a Disney feature film.

Listening to the near constant mumbled commentary of the BRT fan in the green hat is how I spend the final moments of the first half. “Come on rocks get hold of it” he says watching on, leaning against the railing, which isn't really a railing at all, but looks like what you see on the edge of a race track.

“Come on ref blow up” he shouts, and the man in charge does just that.

Once again there is little to no crowd noise, the odd clap, once again the players are the loudest thing, talking in twos and trees as they leave the pitch, dissecting among themselves the first forty five minutes. It’s not until the music starts again, the use of Faithless as walk out music a little taster of what the next fifteen minutes has in store for us, as we violently veer away from disco and go headlong into 90’s dance anthems.

“Tune” says Tom as he prepares to head towards the gleaming beacon in the night that is the Food Station, much like everyone else. The “tune” in question is Gala’s ‘Freed From Desire’ which has put a definite spring in his step, as he heads off for food.

For what might be the first time, I’m eating too tonight. Something has come over me, maybe it's kind of being able to taste again, after ten days of eating with a cold and being neither able to smell or taste what was in front of me.

Black Box’s 1989 hit ‘Ride on Time’ means Tom is positively sashaying towards me with his hands filled with his picks from the Food Station. He is having a wicked time, “great music” he says as he sits down, bobbing his head. The musical choices reminding him of his ill fated lads holiday, I didn't go, I didn't know him them, to the Ionian Islands, “it's like being in Kavos”.

Tom is quite happy with his cheeseburger and chips, and as he puts it, “at least the chips are cooked”. I’m not sure he will ever forgive the half cooked ones at Walton Casuals. Although my burger is perfectly nice, it is very soft, there is little to distinguish as far as texture is concerned, between the bun, the filling, and then the bun on the other side. Tom explains it's simply a case of not being “used to it” and that they are always “generally” quite squishy.

“Another banger” as Tom puts it accompanies the players return, ‘What Is Love’ by Haddaway. The sound of the players studs on the concentrate, we hear long before we see them.

After what was a relatively mundane first half, CR have come out with a bit more purpose. They have an early powerful shot, that can only be palmed back into the area and is eventually cleared. Also after a first half devoid of almost no home fan interaction at all, we finally hear them, “come on yellows”, “come on concord”.

Both teams look like they've had a Lucozade. BRT continue to cause CR problems, and much like the home team, look to have a bit more intent. “Oh come on” shouts a home fan, a thing that is still slightly shocking to hear, when CR are pressured into giving the ball away in defence by the BRT forwards.

Despite the early promise from the stands and on the pitch, again it falls very quiet, “let me referee, you play” we hear the man in charge say to one player as clear as day. Full of cheese burgers, we take a seat in the main stand, just in front of a female supporter sitting alone, who has groaning down to a fine art. Simply from the tone and volume of her sighs, you can tell just how displeased she is, whenever her team make a wayward pass.

BRT certainly look like they have a goal in them, and still craft chances. Another ball cut back into the box is this time skied well over by the attackers left foot. With ten minutes gone, they almost equalise very dramatically with a delicate side footed lob over the stranded keeper, watches it bounce just the right side of his post, which brings a small ripple of applause from the BRT three behind his goal.

A quarter of an hour gone and the home side double their lead. The first attempted shot squirming under the keeper, allowing for a teammate to power home with the follow up.

The thoughts of the CR keeper with his team now two goals ahead is not to celebrate, but to threaten. Threaten his defence, not congratulate or encourage, but to talk to them in such a way that it sounds like he will hurt them, if they don't listen to what he has to say, “don't let them get near our box”.

CR nearly add a third, but the point blank shot somehow is blazed over, and I mean well over. Their keeper is also soon on the warpath when BGT hit is post, and he looks to be preparing the thumb screws. Much like in the first half after going behind, BRT seem that little bit more brighter of the two teams. CR seem content with sitting deep, probably the worst thing to do with such an intimidating keeper, BRT are most definitely are on the front foot.

CR’s keeper exuberantly thanks one player, retreating further and further towards their own goal means BGT are getting bigger and bigger sniffs of a goal of their own. “Well done boy” he shouts at the player who has just saved a certain goal with a last ditch block, the keeper flipping effortlessly between good cop and bad cop.

There is another goal like block by a CR player, but this time its at the other end of the pitch, as one teammate blocks another's goal bound effort following a corner. The loose ball is latched onto by a CR player with his back to goal, who turns sharply, but see his shots deflected wide. It's the BRT keeper this time who is thankful, the same keeper who might just win shoutiest goalie of the season competition.

“Where is the hunger?” asks the BGT captain in his plastic face mask. Even though they find themselves two behind, they are still very much in the match. This is not lost on the frankly scary CR keeper, who is back playing bad cop, as he scalds his defenders once again.

Into the final ten minutes, and CR start to employ a few unsavoury tactics lets say. One player is down injured, he scoots off the pitch and the game continues. Somehow, maybe because of the stiffening breeze, he finds himself back on the pitch, forcing the referee to stop the play, much to the annoyance of one BRT fan behind us, “poor referee”.

With roughly seven minutes left and BRT grab the goal they always looked capable of getting, thanks in some part to a bit of a deflection. I think there is little chance of seeing the good cop again tonight. What we would have called at school a daisy cutter of a shot, is fired goal wards, when the player with the ball frankly having gone down a bit of a dead end, has no other options other than to have a crack.

Off the calf of a CR defender the ball screws like a well played snooker shot, into the goal, via the the foot of the post.

“You fucking let them have a shot” froths the man in goal, he is beyond livid they have just conceded.

BT’s manager is back at it, a mixture of the Captain Hook and Jafar, he asks for one last push from his team “lets go again”.

My attempt to record the Brighton Vs Spurs match and watch it when I get home, without knowing the score is ruined, when I overhear some people discussing it, although they have conflicting reports from the Amex, neither are good though.

CR are back to trying to kill the game off, they are as Tom puts it “going for the corners”.
The visitors have one last effort, a response to the near uninterrupted barking of their furious sounding manager. A free kick not that far outside of the CR box. There is the definite air of throwing the kitchen sink at this, one last try to at least get a point, nigh on everyone is in the CR box, even the keeper has gone up, not something you see every day, another tick on the unusual game checklist.

Why oh why, the BRT player decided to shoot directly, with a box rammed full of players in front of him, only he will only ever know, but needless to say his low drive is blocked, possession is now back in the hands of the CR and their goal is gaping.

“Shoooooooot” shouts one CR fan, one of the smallish group now behind the goal. The player not far

over the halfway line obliges, and it looks good, but it's just a fraction, a millimetre too high and hits the crossbar, and out. Their collective "ahhhhhhh" as they watch the ball bounce out of play, is the noisiest they have been all night.

BRT now pepper the CR goal, “hold on to it” demands one fan, fed up at this crucial time in the match seeing his team constantly give the ball way. One supporter sums up how I’m sure everyone must be feeling, “I never thought this game would of ended with my heart in my mouth”.

At no point did the game ever feel like it was going to be enthralling. The same fan discussing the near wonder goal from well outside of the area, said how he was “willing it down all the way” the ball seemingly hanging in the air for an “eternity”.

CR are certainly making “hard work of it” as one supporter puts it, the crowd condensing ninety minutes of opinions and spirit into the final seconds. “Come on ref, blow the whistle” one demands, and for the second time tonight he does what the crowd asks, and does just that.

“Yesssssss” says someone, his elongated expression, testament to just how vital the three points were tonight, in avoiding the drop. However he is the about the only one, I expected a bit more fanfare following the final whistle, but the Arena is soon empty, most fans darting for the exit at double time.

It was not the most riveting of games, not one memorable for its abundance of atmosphere, the music was quite brilliant but the setting not one that is ever going to adorn the glossy pages of a coffee table book about non league football. However the words of Andy Wilkins CR's photographer, who I bumped into at half time, negate any bad smell, dodgy view or damaged stand, "it's not the greatest ground, but we take pride in what we do".

For all of our photographs from the match, click HERE 

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It's Not Pie Weather - Lewes FC Vs East Grinstead Town FC, Bostik League South, Dripping Pan (14/04/18)

I should really still be in bed, I think I’m better, I’ve convinced myself I'm fighting fit and raring to go. I’ve told myself one hundred times that the man flu has gone, and that I’m totally prepared for the day ahead, but this could not be further from the truth, however this fact is not yet totally apparent to me.

It’s certainly nice out, warm even, you could maybe even go as far as saying hot. It is frankly ridiculous that I’m in my thick woolly jumper, which has been my go to football outfit these last few months, I’ve even put my big coat in the boot, but I doubt I’ll be needing that, unless its to curl up and die under. Tom covering me like some lame horse at Aintree, about to be put out of its misery.

The car is insufferably hot, however high the fans are, however far open the windows are, I can’t get cool. I constantly sip from a two litre bottle of water, Tom on standby waiting for me to ask him to hand it to me, I’m trying to keep hydrated, as I can already feel the beads of sweat forming at the base of my hairline and this pain behind my eyes and nose is building by the second.

Tom on the other hand is revelling in the warmth, admitting he's not “prepared” wishing he had some “shorts” on, and his “sunnies”.

Such is my delirium, I allow him control of the radio, forgetting his penchant for every minicab drivers mainstay, Heart FM. Joining it seems “everyone” else going to “Brighton”, Toms reason for all the traffic, he is enjoying Will Smith singing about Miami “everyday like a mardi gras, everybody party all day” while all I can think about is how much difference is me rolling my sleeves up to my elbows going to make on decelerating my current rising temperature.

The giant granite pillar that signifies you've arrived in Brighton is a welcome sight. It for a moment allows me to forget that I wish I could just turn around and go home, Tom oblivious to my suffering, he’s playing some game on his phone where he's trying to get to the “iron age”, while I try and use the memories of my childhood fishing on the marina and buying records in the Lanes, to stop me drifting into a catatonic state, while at the wheel.

We leave the sun seekers heading for the pebble beaches and mini golf courses, the volume of traffic notably thinning out as we do so and still with some questionable music on, we can at least enjoy the scenery, made all the better by the fine weather as we head towards Lewes.

Now my Mum said Lewes is a “lovely little town”, it's not one that either of us have ever been to,  but my timing of informing Tom of my Mum’s opinion on this part of East Sussex was perhaps a little poor, as at that moment we were in fact passing a very large Victorian prison, however once past that, I think we can both agree with my dear mothers description.

A single white flag with the Lewes FC (LFC) crest on, featuring the nearby turret of Lewes Castle that gives them their nickname The Rooks, is the first thing that gives any real inkling we have arrived at The Dripping Pan. Turning into the car park there is already no chance of finding a spot, even with how ridiculously early we are. The few straggling players of both sides have filled the last few spots, pulling out their kit bags from the boots of their cars and heading on into the ground.

We therefore pass the flag and the dark red board with todays fixture on and follow a high stone wall, along a long thin road, opposite some white washed houses, eventually finding somewhere to park, not too far away.

Other than the few signs already mentioned, and assuming the ground is the other side of the wall, it's certainly doing a very good job at keeping whatever is on the other side, very well hidden.

Tom is on pay and display duty, he goes off in search of the machine, rummaging in his pocket for change as he does. I take the moment alone to have my final two decongestant tablets, a few last hefty glugs of what is now tepid water, open my door and step out into the world.

What am I doing, I feel like I’m literally dragging myself along, do I look as much like an extra from the Walking Dead as I feel like I do? Although it's really no distance at all to the entrance of the the ground, it feels like an eternity, and with the sun beating down on me, I’m close to tapping out.

The home of LFC is really being shown off in the best possible light, as we pass through the turnstiles, ending up at the back, of the thankfully shaded steep bank of terracing. Stretching out before us is the emerald green pitch, and the South Downs visible in the distance, accompanied by the near constant squawk of gulls. For the first time today I don't feel totaly stupid that I got out of bed this morning, but hold onto the nearby railing just to prop myself up a bit.

With the long wall running along to our left, the reason it does such a good job of keeping what's in here a secret so well, is the fact the pitch and the remainder of the stands, the largest of them looking like its been stolen from a League Two team and another uncovered terrace, primed for an early summer sun burn at the opposite end of the ground, are well, well below the level we parked at.

Descending the terrace, itself a bit irregular, Tom saying it looks like a “bus shelter” and I admit there is something very municipal about it, with its curved, translucent roof. However it doesn’t look out of place among the hodgepodge of fittings.

Next to it and perhaps most curiously of them all, where both the LFC players and their opposition East Grinstead Town FC (EGT) are congregated enjoying the fine weather, is what looks like a three storey house.

At the base of it the club bar and The Hatch, already open and ready for business, I’m sure Tom will be nosing about it very soon. On its second floor I’m told are the away dressing rooms, which are accessed by a steep slope at its side, and right at the top behind the frosted windows, three floors up is the home dressing room. I've never seen anything like it.

I need to sit down, I find a low wall to plonk myself on, out of the sun. The chatter of the nearby LFC
players is about where the chairman is taking them after gaining promotion this week. A few are mentioning “Vegas” others “Ibiza”.

“Suns out, shorts on” says one LFC coach to another, “makes a change” he replies. Having spent the last few weekends trying to find a match that had not been called off because of snow or rain, it's quite the change indeed to have thought I could have gotten away with getting my legs out today.

I imagine there will be few punters today pleased to be spending the afternoon in one of the corporate beach huts here, yes that right, one of the may quirks of the Dripping Pan are the pale white huts to one side of the “bus shelter” stand, that will at one point have their small windows at their front flung open, allowing what might just be the finest view of the whole pitch.

“It's not pie weather” says Tom, having returned from The Hatch and learning that their main staple comes with a lid and a filling. He informs me he may well be “favouring the Chuck Wagon” instead, as they not only do they do “burgers” but also, and I think this was the deal breaker “cheesy chips”.

The shade is helping, I squirrel myself away on one of the red fold down seats of the stand that would look more at home at Stevenage then at a non league club. Not far from me are a few examples of the well known LFC matchday posters, satirical takes on film posters and book covers. The music is also helping, very eclectic, very “Dad music” as Tom always calls it, to be fair Deep Purple very much fall into that category, although I’m not sure my Dad was ever listening to Rammstein.

Lou Reed going on in the way he does, brings my mood down a bit, but the Beach Boys and a spot of reggae, brings it right back up again. I figure if I don't move, I don't go in the sun, I stay absolutely still, I should be able to make it through today.

I scare myself a little when a woman with a red and black LFC scarf around her waist approaches me and asks if I “would like a raffle ticket sir?”. Whereas I would normally jump at the chance, I decline, I really need to sort myself out.

Tom fed up of sitting around next to me feeling sorry for myself, is off once more exploring, “might
have a beer today” I hear him say to himself. He returns beerless, but with good news about the now open club shop perched on top of what he is now calling the “Sussex yellow wall” that's the “bus shelter” stand to you and I.

“You’re in for a treat” he tells me, and for the first time I feel close to human. “What a mix of stuff in the shop” he exclaims. He’s a good friend Tom, he knows maybe more than most, simply down to the amount of time we spend together how to lift my spirits, and a good football club shop overflowing with tat, including “golf balls” he explains, is as good a cure as any.

It’s now or never, time to get my shit together.

Although it’s only a short climb up the steep steps of the “Sussex yellow wall” as Tom now is exclusively referring to it, I feel like I've done a trek twice as big when I get to the top, however what I find is more than enough to revitalise me.

Key rings, car flags, posters, pens, a mega mug and thermos mug, are just a small fraction of what is on offer. I thought it was going to be hard to beat the temporary tattoos at AFC Rushden & Diamonds, but the offer of an LFC dart flight, might just pip them to the post, for most obscure thing we’ve seen on sale all season. We are a little bamboozled by the fact you only get one for £3.50, the man in the cramped broom cupboard that affords him little room for him to move, such is the amount of stuff it’s overflowing with, offers us a deal for three, but we just stick with the one.

The lady selling the raffle tickets almost looks a bit shocked when I approach her, telling her this time I will be taking a couple of lines of tickets. She informs me the “prizes” will be in the “shop”, and if I “don't hear the results announced at half time” that she does “pin” them up around the ground. If I do win the “booze”, I can't have that until the “end” because of the “glass”, she says with a considerable roll of the eyes, some halfwit having dropped a bottle of “prosecco” one time, making life difficult for everyone.

It’s most definitely predominantly black and red in the crowd, there's the occasional flash of the yellow and black of the away team, The Wasps, insert summertime wasps related gag here, but it's already a “good turnout” as Tom puts it from the home fans. There is a definite buzz of anticipation here today. Some I imagine here who were unable to make it in the week when it happened at the last home game, to cheer on their newly promoted team.

A few spots on the “Sussex yellow wall” are already gone, one LFC fan in their black and red striped shirt, with a white horn around his neck, hangs his small Union Jack flag to the side of one of the goal.

The track record for good music continues, as Tom wonders when he is getting his beer. If I wasn't driving and didn't feel like death I would join him. With the sun out, good soundtrack, and the prospect of some football in a place that is rapidly growing on us both as a very fine place to enjoy your Saturday afternoon, I can't think of a better place to sink a few pints.

The referee is curiously applauded as he completes his lap of the pitch, Tom thinks the crowd are “taking the piss” and it did seem on reflection a little bit panto, maybe a bit of previous with this particular official.

Our choice of spot behind the goal in the final moments of the warm up is almost disastrous. “They
don't like you” says one person to Tom as he is almost hit three times in a row by wayward shots, although I’m pretty sure they are not aiming for him.

Perhaps it was his brief brush with almost getting hit in the face with a ball, but Tom has made an important decision, he will be getting his food today from the “Chuck Wagon”. He has convinced himself that it's only “Bovril” available at The Hatch. Which is totally contrary to the chalkboards out front that detail a whole smorgasbord of stuff on offer, but when he gets a notion into his head, there is no talking him round.

The light breeze across my face is a continued source of comfort, the same breeze flutters some of the black and red bunting that hangs in various places. I hope I’m not hallucinating when I see the very large husky pitchside, and can only hope that I’m not about to be asked to follow a native American.

It’s the very business like announcement from the club Chairman Stuart Fuller in his suit jacket and waistcoat ensemble, that snaps me out of my reverie, “welcome to the Dripping Pan”. As he reads the starting line ups out, the biggest cheer is for the LFC player about to make his “250th appearance” for the club.

Like any good Chairman should have, the nouse and know how of how to generate money, he has a trip for twenty two people to Vegas to pay for, and what better way to “celebrate the season” than with a club shirt. “Only ten left” he explains over the microphone and with “33% off” today, I don't think he expects them to be there for much longer.

I’m not sure if its the faint cry of the seller, “anyone for the raffle” she asks, but my conversation with Stuart Fuller, now having completed all his announcements, is about my fondness for a raffle and he asks me if I’ve got my “golden goal ticket”, you what?

I say no, trying to keep calm, from behind his shades he’s telling me about one person who recently managed to get both tickets of the two lines they print off and the remarkable odds of that happening, but I can only think of the missed opportunity. I ask Tom who still has an eye firmly fixed on the players taking shots, telling me someone else was nearly “decapitated” if I’ve got time to find the person selling them, he tells me I don't, like a disappointed parent.

Among all the fanfare of the players arriving, the shouts from the fans, the people clapping on top the large flag lined bank along one side of the pitch and the small singing group of EGT supporters in fancy dress, one with a very scraggly white wig, all I can think about is the very finite amount of time I have to find the person selling the golden goal tickets.

Then by chance, through a spike topped fence I see them, two people with buckets. With one arm through the fence I beckon them over, the man with the blue bucket looks concerned but still approaches. As he gets closer he can hopefully tell my intentions are good, I hand him my £2 and he allows me to pick two folded up tickets, with only seconds to spare.

Things are definitely on the up.

Seemingly the joke that will never die rears its head in the opening minutes of the match, the mass red and black migrations from one end of the ground to the other all but over, one LFC fan settling down in the stands near by us shouts “come on Harry Kane”.

Thankfully the game gets off to a blistering start, LFC looking every inch the table toppers, a suitable distraction from the woeful joke. They put together an excellent move of close control and back heels, which results in a close range shot being saved by EGT’s keeper in a very smart graduating fade, all blue kit, “ohhhhh” gasp the crowd, “come on Lewes, come on Lewes” they chant without any more Harry Kane references.

“I've got my finger on the button” says the man loitering next to me, with what looks like the detonator for a bomb from a Die Hard movie. It is in fact the remote control of the scoreboard opposite us, sensing an early goal he is poised.

One late comer to the end LFC are attacking, is suitably scalded not for taking his time to get down to the right end, but for being here in the first place. “You shouldn't be here Martin, you should be at your wife's birthday”. Martins reply is quick and to the point, and I’m not sure something his wife would want to here, “it's not a special birthday”.

“Come on Grinstead, come on Grinstead” shout who are at the moment the noisiest fans here, outnumbered, they are though the ones we can hear. The small group pushed up against the railing at the foot of the terrace are all in fancy dress. One has come as the obligatory banana, surprisingly though there is not one in a Morph suit, but there is one person as Tom describes, who has come as a “scouse”. Not dressed as pot of lamb stew but with a curly black wig and shellsuit on, Harry Enfield style.

They watch on as their team, languishing at the other end of the table to LFC, show they are not here to roll over for the champions elect. With nearly fifteen minutes gone, at least I think that's what it says on the scoreboard, I can't really see because of the sun, the visitors go close after a cross almost catches out the LFC keeper. He’s forced to flap at the highball, not clearing it very far. The ball is picked up just outside the area and the resulting shot is a low hard one, that he can't get hold of either and has to palm out.

When LFC eventually regain possession, pushing forwards, seemingly always with about four upfront, they go close themselves. Firstly when the opportunity for the spectacular arises, EGT’s keepers poor kicked clearance, that won't be his first of the day, balloons high up into the air, it falls to an LFC player who attempts a first time volley towards goal, which is just as bad as the kick away from it, and gets a suitably sarcastic “woooooo” from everyone, as it sails off into the distance.

They go much closer, not long after, with a low stinging shot of their own, almost a carbon copy of the EGT one, which is also too hot to handle and is pushed wide of the post.

Just under half an hour gone, the game having simmered, the breeze a near constant, the warmth of the sun just right, mixed with the squawk of the gulls, it really is turning into a very agreeable day.

The first of any kind of song comes from the EGT six, “oh when the grin go marching in”. They watch on as their team continues to give a good account of themselves. They have their own attempt at a long range lob, buts its a bit tame. The teammates of the player who had the effort, who were in much better positions, flap their arms by their sides in frustration.

There is a mild sense of dissatisfaction from the home fans too, considering their recent promotion and the league positions between the two sides, I think some were maybe expecting a bit more of a cake walk on the pitch. “Come on Lewes it's party time” shouts one fan, towards the players who just seem a little out of sync.

LFC have plenty of the ball, always have plenty of options going forward, but are just missing any kid of snap in the final third. When they look to score, the passing is just a little weak, one such attack results in a blocked final pass, when if the ball had been played that bit quicker surely would have resulted in a goal.

One fan raises a single hand towards the pitch, saying nothing, simply gesturing ‘come on’, showing his displeasure at what he sees before him. A single lonely voice from the terrace shouts “come on Lewes”, but there is little energy coming from the home fans either.

The announcement of an early LFC sub is deafening the speaker pointed right at us, it's like some kind of South Korean weapon of war. “Fucking hell” screams a startled Tom who I can just about hear. The player going off is less than happy, you might even say he is having a bit of a tantrum, “I can’t fucking see” he shouts as he makes his way to sit down in the half buried, almost subterranean dugouts.

LFC’s very vocal keeper has his finest moment late in the half, when organising his defence for an incoming EGT freekick. “Seize the line” is what Tom thinks he cries, “very Gladiator”. Whatever it was he said worked, EGT's set piece comes to nothing.

Much like the crowd, the LFC bench, the same bench where one person was just told off by the referee for petulantly punching the ball away, senses that perhaps the players are a little tense. The pressure of promotion and trying to secure the title, weighing on their shoulders, “relax” shouts one coach towards the players.

“Have to leave soon” says Tom, “queues getting long” he adds, pointing to the Chuck Wagon up on the hill. Soon I'm alone, but that's fine, I can enjoy the euphoria of the giant sinus clearing sneeze I just did all by myself.

The impatience is growing, “oh come on” gripe a few fans, as LFC persist with giving the ball away. The first real home chant of “come on Lewes” doesn't last for long and when EGT go close and LFC look to counterattack, it breaks down once more, and the noises of anticipation, turn into groans.

Again there are attempts at a song, “oh when the Rooks” but like the players on the pitch it just there just feels like somethings missing.

LFC go the closest they have all half to getting the goal, one fan nearby keeps asking them to get, when they hit the post of the EGT goal with what turns out to be the very last kick of the game. The referee blowing his whistle with the ball still making its way back off the woodwork.

Back on the pitch, Stuart Fuller introduces some members of the “legendary” LFC team of the “late
70’s early 80’s”. I get chatting to a very sad Bognor Regis fan, whose team are losing “same old Bognor” he says about his team currently at the bottom of the National League South.

His evaluation of the game is pretty spot on. EGT have had far more “control in midfield” but have “nothing upfront” a tad toothless you might say. This could have something to do with their “star striker” as one person described him to me earlier, having left EGT about six weeks ago to join LFC.

As much as I enjoyed the theme tune from Bullseye accompanying the results of the raffle being read out, I learn that I’m not winner, and neither is the sad Bognor fan.

In what seemed like record time, getting all the way to the Chuck Wagon up the hill at the opposite end of the ground and back again, Tom has returned from his food run a very happy boy. “Now this is a gourmet burger” he says opening the white cardboard box, to reveal a gleaming “brioche bun” like a meaty filled Faberge egg. Only a few bites into it, and he’s already singing its praises, “if you’re ever going to have a burger, have one here, better than that shit at Walton” he says. Last time outs food was a memorable experience for all the wrong reasons.

All finished, and through the noise of some halftime 80’s pop, Tom declares he “could do that again” and that the burger he just demolished rivals the one he had at Rushden & Diamonds which he declared was the “best football burger ever”. Today's choice he also admits was the “healthy” option, because it had “salad in”.

EGT fans have quickly swapped ends, and now occupy a small section at the very back of the uncovered terrace. Rollicking in the sun, except for the one with a bucket with a face on it on his head, they spend most of the break chanting among themselves. When the teams reappear, the now ram packed “Sussex yellow wall”, now justifying in some very small way Tom’s renaming of it, they start to sing, “come on Lewes, come on Lewes”. The away fans reply with the same chant with an obvious change, “come on Grinstead, come on Grinstead” following up with the staple away day song, for any group of fans visiting a ground that’s a little quiet, “we forget that you were here”.

“Come on boys” shouts a person on the LFC bench, and that's just what they do, because two minutes later they are in front.

If ever a goalscorer could look embarrassed, I would say that's just what the LFC scorer looks like. The cross from out wide is misjudged by the keeper who is forced to frantically back peddle, reaching desperately to try and get something on it, he does, but only enough to drop it on to the lap of the jumping number 9 at the back post, who really knows nothing about it, but it's already over the line before he can react.

There is a brief claim for a handball from the EGT players, the keeper in particular looking at the referee imploringly, desperate for him to give it, to let him off the hook, but he doesn't and the LFC players can continue their celebration in the back of the goal.

“Lewes, Lewes, Lewes” sing the fans, this gets a quick retort from the EGT supporters, “we forgot that you were here” before pointing out that it seems they “only sing when” they’re “winning”. Once I’ve eventually managed to open both my golden goal tickets, I realise my through the fence dealings were a waste of time, and I've not won that either.

EGT’s “very casual” manager as Tom calls him, casual in appearance he’s got the whole skinny jeans and deck shoes thing go on, not necessarily in management style, asks his team to “liven up”. Despite conceding the EGT fans still sing, “come on you Wasps, come on you Wasps” but ever since the goal, their teams heads have dropped a little, and LFC are really growing into the game.

The home side are still guilty of plenty of loose passing, but certainly look far more assured then they did in the first half. A goal bound shot of theirs is deflected wide, and the resulting corner is a really good one “ohhhhhh” shriek the bumper crowd behind the goal. Summing up their general performance though, the follow up ball, the one back into the box is dire and the grumbling starts again.

If they can't enjoy the game, the EGT fans are certainly making the most of their half in the sun, still just as lively as they were before conceding. Their team has a shout for a penalty declined, then they almost concede a carbon copy of the first goal, instead this time the keeper can't get a hand to the ball and it strikes the upright, fortunately for him bouncing out instead of in.

The fervour on the home terrace is slowly building “that is why we love you, we love you, we love you” they sing.

Even though I can't taste anything, I accept the “wine gum” Tom offers me. The optimistic shout of “we're gonna score in a minute” from the EGT fans is wishful thinking to say the least, they break well at times, on one occasion they a race up field after a LFC corner, but have no focal point upfront, no presence in front of goal at all.

“Looks a bit like Owen Hargreaves” says Tom about the LFC number 12 who just supplied a most excellent through ball, that looks like we might be on for a second, unfortunately the quality of the finish, doesn't match the assist, and again someone in the crowd looks close to losing their head.

As nice a day it is, their team may well be ahead, but the fans seemingly expect more, lots of grumbling once more. There is a muted attempt at “we are going up” but it’s a bit flat. Tom thinks the players are “worrying too much” about their “holiday”, not focused on the game, maybe it’s a case of thinking today was an “easy game” considering where EGT find themselves at the bottom of the league.

“Need another Lewes” suggests one fan. A slight tinge of apprehension in his voice maybe. EGT look like a team that could certainly get a goal, if they just had someone who looked liked they could score one.

With just over a quarter of an hour left, LFC show their Jekyll and Hyde tendencies. They craft a great chance, which results in a close range shot that is beaten out, “come on Lewes, come on Lewes” sing the fans. Sadly for them the corner that follows, well frankly it's shit.

The wait for another LFC goal is not long, it's certainly not long for the player who comes off the bench and with his “first touch” as the man over the PA says gleefully, he gets the all important second. Arms outstretched by his side, he runs towards the fans to celebrate. One supporter rushes the fence to give him an almighty bear hug. Such is the slightly bizarre salmon like action of the goal scorer, hey whatever works, he got on the other end of the cross, someone on the home bench sees it fit to mimic him.

“We are going up, we are going up” sing the LFC fans, which is followed by the single blast of a horn.

LFC are ramping it up, for the final ten minutes and they have EGT pinned back. An excellent one handed save from the EGT keeper, who even though he has conceded two, might be their man of the match, manages somehow to get a hand to a flicked header and keeps it out.

The sound of the horn is becoming all the more frequent, and so are the songs from the terraces “you are my Lewes, my only Lewes”. LFC are now showboating a little, doing all sorts of unnecessary flicks. Single handedly the EGT keeper is stopping them from getting a third, another snapshot is well saved, and he is getting some praise from the home fans, “he's’ a good keeper, a good shot stopper”.

“About three minutes” replies the referee, when asked how long is left. Just about enough time for Stuart Fuller with the microphone to inform us that there are “659 at the Pan” this afternoon and that the Owen Hargreaves look a like got the “man of the match” award.

Into the dying minutes and players from both sides are simply going through the motions, the crowd are thanked for their “attendance” and break out into one last rendition of “we are going up” just before the final whistle.

The last thing I expected following a home win and their second win in a week, was some abuse aimed at the LFC manager from the crowd, some football fans can be very fickle. “Daddy peanut head” shouts a small child towards him, very sad to see. A stadium ban surely will be the only course of action.

Both sets of fans are applauded by their respective teams, “Lewes, Lewes, Lewes” sing those still filling the terrace as the players approach. Just as loud the EGT supporters give their players one last song, before they make the long walk off, “we love you Grinstead we do” all to the tune of the theme from 'The good, the bad and the ugly".

Where to start with today, how do I explain why today, well why today might just be one of the best ones yet, despite me feeling like death, wanting to cry, wishing I had never left the house, how despite all of that, our afternoon at The Dripping Pan or Pan Siro as it is sometimes called, with its "funny pitch" as Tom called it, that at one point such is the unevenness, the corner flag is above the goal, joins that short list of clubs that have really made a permanent impression on us.

I'm not sure I can put my finger on precisely why it was so enjoyable. Was it the mechano floodlights, the fact the lady selling me the raffle tickets asked if I had won, and when I told her I hadn't she "thanked me for taking part", was it the large willow tree behind the "bus shelter" stand, or the fact they played one of my favourite songs of all time 'It Was a Very Good Year' by Frank Sinatra as we left, was it the fact they had a scoreboard, something so many grounds miss, was it the glorious red and black stripes of the LFC kit or was is the announcement about halfway through the second half for the people who purchased the single dart flight to go and collect the other two, and the apologies from the man in the shop, for the mistake he made.

Actually I think its because its all of those things, and many more, many more. LFC is almost the complete package. There are so many things to admire about it and I'm sure we will be back, just when I'm feeling a bit better.

For all of our photographs from the match, click HERE 

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